


The Worst Date

by scatteringmyashes



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: First Dates, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Intervention, M/M, Romance, Trans Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 02:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16441052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteringmyashes/pseuds/scatteringmyashes
Summary: James Hawke is many things. Dangerous. Witty. Quick to anger and quick to love. And, above all else, absolutely smitten with the one and only Fenris. But actually taking steps to move their relationship forward is difficult. What better than to enlist the help of best friends Varric and Isabela?... probably anything, but it can't go too poorly. Right?… Right?





	The Worst Date

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GothicPrincessWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GothicPrincessWitch/gifts).



> This was written for the wonderful GothicPrincessWitch for winning one of three spots from my 600 follower giveaway. It got a bit lengthy but hey I finally finished wooo
> 
> Enjoy <3

James Hawke downed the fifth shot with the same speed and wince as the others, seemingly oblivious the multitude of empty tankards that surrounded him. In his defense, about half of those were courtesy of Isabela and Varric, who were just as responsible for Hawke's inebriated state as Hawke was. Well, sort of. They were the ones encouraging him to drink his woes away. 

“All I'm saying,” Varric declared with a wide sweep of his arms, “Is that if Chuckles wants to impress the elf it's got to be something special. Something unique. Something—” 

“All right, all right. We get it. You wrote a few big books and now you think you know how to get into someone's pants. But Hawke needs something different than your still, Varric. Fenris isn't going to be wooed by normal means,” Isabela argued. 

“Fenris has pretty eyes,” Hawke contributed. 

Isabela gave him a pat on the back. “We know, Hawke. We know.” 

“They're — they're just so green! And his hair is so soft…” 

“When have you ever touched his hair?” Varric asked, eyebrows raising. Hawke lifted up a hand. “Five times?” 

“No…” Hawke stared at his hand and then slowly lowered four fingers. “He's so fast… he ripped the head off an ogre once.” 

Isabela, who had not gone on the disastrous Deep Roads expedition, glanced at Varric. Of course, Varric had no idea what Hawke was drunkenly going on about. Isabela sighed. 

“Oh, Hawke. You inebriated, love-struck _idiot._ ” Isabela shared a look with Varric, who absolutely knew what was going through her head. “It would be quick…” 

“No, Isabela, we are not locking the two of them in a broom closet until they kiss,” Varric chided. “Who are you? My editor? He comes up with that cliche crap.” 

“Well do you have a better idea?” 

Hawke reached for another drink but found that all the cups around him were empty. “Bela, there's no beer left.” 

She gave him a pat on the head. Hawke's usual tight ponytail was a ragged mess, the leather tie abandoned somewhere between the third shot and Varric taking his jacket off, chest hair even more visible. 

“Your hair is so nice,” Isabela exclaimed. “I'm jealous.” 

“Fenris is nice,” Hawke replied. Isabela sighed. 

“You two are hopeless,” she said. Hawke groaned and planted his face on the table. He tried not to think about the smell. “Seriously, Hawke, why haven't you asked him out yet? You've known him for so long now.” 

“He… he's not interested.” 

Isabela and Varric shared a look. 

“Fenris is so interested in you, he stops arguing over Chantry doctrine with Anders when you smile at him,” Varric said. Hawke _had_ wondered why Anders was being less obnoxious recently. 

Still, that didn't mean that Fenris _liked_ him. Maybe Fenris just happened to think that Hawke didn't want him arguing with Anders (though Hawke, personally, only cared about inasmuch as he thought Anders should shut his mouth). 

“How about this, Hawke,” Isabela suggested with an equally suggestive arm slung over his shoulders. “I ask Fenris what he thinks. I tell you what he says. You ask him out and the two of you go on a romantic date, go back to your fancy mansion, and have a nice long night of—” 

“Isa- _bela,_ ” Hawke groaned, tilting his chin up so he could glare at her. Isabela laughed, patting him on the head. “Fenris and I are not — no. No. Just no.” 

“Was that three ‘no's or four? Just asking for the novelization. I can see it now. Dangerous assassin Jacob Falcon and his elven love interest, Frendris.” Varric swept his hand out, almost knocking Isabela in the back of the head. 

Hawke groaned again. He was not drunk enough for this. 

“Don't worry, Hawke. Leave it to Varric and me, we'll have you sweeping Fenris off his feet in no time!” Isabela may have said more, but at that moment Hawke’s brain chose to turn off.

He was asleep before his face landed in a puddle of questionable liquid. 

#

Hawke woke up in his mansion, the light pouring over his face. His clothes were the same as the night before — even his armor and boots were still on. He moaned and reached around for his daggers and felt a moment of relief that they hadn't been left behind. It seemed like everything he had brought with him to the Hanged Man had made its way back, save ten or so gold.

Granted, he had no idea how Varric “Hawke, you may be a dashing rogue but please stop hitting me in the head with your elbow” and Isabela “I don't like to sweat unless my clothes are off” managed to get him home. 

He had a fairly bad hangover, but also he once had drunk a vial of his own poison on a bet so in comparison this was nothing. Hawke sat up, groaned, and groped around his bedside table. There was no glass of water — apparently Isabela and/or Varric's goodwill ended at “return to home” — but there was a crumpled note. 

_18th bell, you and Fenris, Chantry steps._

_Love, Bela_

There was a heart scrawled after Isabela’s name and a scribble that Hawke thought was “VT” on the side. 

The faint sound of paws on carpet reached ever-alert Hawke's ears and, not a half minute later, over a hundred pounds of mabari threw itself at Hawke's bedroom door. It was a credit to the original wood that it didn't crumple immediately — and that it hasn't even splintered. 

Trinket barked. 

“Hold on, boy,” Hawke called out, rubbing at his eyes. It was impossible to sleep in when there was so much trouble around and a stubborn mabari in the mansion. He left the note where he found it. Surely it wasn't serious, just another prank from the two more morally ambiguous rogues Hawke called his friends. 

(Sebastian, of course, was one of two moral backbones the group had and could not be counted as morally ambiguous under any definition.) 

#

Hawke had plenty on his mind — dealing with the mounting Qunari crisis for one — and his hangover didn't help. Thanks to it, he didn't even try leaving the mansion to trek down the Wounded Coast or argue with a bunch of nobles. He didn't notice when the 18th bell hit. He barely noticed when Leandra dropped off dinner, courtesy of Bodhan's cooking of course. He did notice, however, when his front door swung open and slammed against the wall.

“Maker's breath,” Hawke swore. He had his daggers in hand as he walked to the foyer, motioning with a head tilt for Bodhan to hide in another room. “Whoever's there, I'm six feet of annoyed, mildly hungover muscle and I do not have time for this.” 

“You're late!” Isabela marched in, crossing her arms and glaring. Hawke stared. “You're late for your date!”

Hawke blinked in confusion, which was all the time Isabela needed to cross the distance between them and get into his face. She jabbed him in the chest with her finger, not at all concerned about the wickedly sharp daggers he had in either hand. 

“18th bell! Do you not know how to read? I thought it was simple — and trust me, Varric wanted to make it a puzzle for you to solve—” 

“What are you talking about?” Hawke asked, extremely confused. 

Isabela slapped her face with her palm. “Your. Date. With. Fenris.” 

“... I didn't have anything today with Fenris? He and I only spar on Thursdays.” Hawke raised an eyebrow. “What is this about Varric?” 

The look on Isabela’s face could best be described as horror. “I cannot believe you forgot! And after all the trouble we went to. The note was so simple too. And — and Fenris was so hard to convince — I still owe Sebastian — and now it's like you're trying to ruin everything.” 

“Wait, what note?” 

Isabela stopped. “You don't remember.” 

“I really don't remember.” Hawke wondered what his chances of being stabbed were if he tried walking away. They were just high enough that he didn't fancy trying. “Was I supposed to meet him somewhere?” 

Rather than immediate answer, Isabela looked Hawke up and down. He was in his house clothes, a simple linen shirt with trousers, and his daggers were in either hand. He didn't have his boots on, his hair was tangled and unkempt, and he was pretty sure he had some mabari drool on his pants. 

“Eh, it'll do. You're already late.” Isabela grabbed Hawke by his shirt and started tugging him forward. He could have protested, but he got the sense it would lead to pain. “Get your boots and a jacket on, Hawke. You've got a date.” 

“With who?” Hawke stupidly asked. A moment passed. “Wait. Fuck—” 

#

Hawke did not, as Isabela wanted, go to the date in his house clothes. He got dressed up, as any proper gentleman would before a night out with his paramour. Of course, Hawke was no gentleman and Fenris was hardly his lover. So his idea of dressing up was his nice armor, the leather that didn't have acid stains all on the front, and the boots with the gold buckles instead of the rusting bronze. 

It also meant it was ringing the 19th bell by the time he ran to the Chantry steps, half expecting Fenris to have gone home by now. Instead Hawke found his heart leap into his chest as he saw Fenris standing there in his beautiful armor, bangs brushed to one side, a small smile on his lips.

Sebastian chuckled at something Fenris said before looking over at Hawke. 

“Ah, there he is.” Sebastian didn't have a cruel smile on his face, but there definitely was an amused smirk present. “Hello, Hawke. I was starting to think you wouldn't come.” 

Hawke knew he should reply, but he was too busy watching how the sunset caught on Fenris's armor and bounced up to his shining green eyes. Fenris coughed and blushed, looking away. Hawke felt like his tongue weighed a million pounds. He couldn't look away, wanting to take in every second, every moment he spent with Fenris. There was so little evidence that the Maker smiled on Hawke, but allowing Fenris to be in Hawke's life… that was one blessing Hawke always counted. 

“Hello, Hawke. Isabela told me she would fetch you. Did she stop for a nap before?” Fenris asked, lips twitching in a smile. 

_He's not mad!_ Hawke thought. He could do a jig. Preferably not — he hadn't had enough alcohol yet. 

“Unfortunately it is my fault, she caught me a little unaware. I was — I was catching up on my correspondence when she arrived. But I much prefer the company of a handsome man. Oh, and you too, Sebastian,” Hawke said with a wink at the archer. 

Sebastian laughed. “Well, it looks like you are in good hands, Fenris. I'll take my leave. Have a good evening, my friends.” He turned and started to walk back up the Chantry steps. 

“So, Hawke, where are we going? All Isabela told me was to come to the Chantry steps by the 18th bell. I assumed that we had a task to complete, but…” Fenris shrugged. He was armed. He was always armed, Hawke knew, what with the lyrium that was burnt into his flesh. It probably should have frightened Hawke more than it did. 

“Uh…” Hawke had no idea where they could go. His first thought was the Hanged Man, but Isabela and Varric would be there and Hawke didn't want them listening in. 

They could go to the fancy Orlesian place, the one just on the other side of Hightown. But even though Hawke was proverbially rolling in gold, most places didn't like when two fully armed thug walked into their nice establishments. 

Hawke would kill anyone who thought Fenris was a lowly thug, but he was well aware of his own reputation. So what if a bunch of stuck up nobles considered him worse than the ground they walked on? Hawke was the one with the gold and the skill to back up any remarks he made. No one was stupid enough to mock him — not to his face at least. 

“James?” Fenris stepped closer, brows burrowing. “If you are feeling unwell…” 

Hawke realized he had been staring into the distance, thinking about finally being able to punch fucking Launcet in the face. Thinking about spending time with Fenris, though, was even better. 

“Isabela insisted that we see each other.” Hawke rolled his eyes. “As if our friendship needs their help. Anyways, I think I have a place. Trust me?” Hawke asked. 

Fenris smiled and nodded. “Always.” 

That made Hawke's heart skip a beat. He grinned and gestured in front of him.

“Well then, Fenris, let me introduce you to one of my favorite haunts from when I first came here. It's a real find, very unique. Nothing else like it in all of Kirkwall.” 

#

“Welcome to The Pit!” Hawke declared as he threw open the door to the aptly named Pit. Immediately he ducked, pulling Fenris out of the way of an errant chair leg. Someone shouted in victory. Someone else screamed.

There was actually a lot of screaming, as well as cheering and jeering. The Pit was full of people, some rich and some poor but all of them focused on the center of the cavern. There was a ring about twenty feet in diameter and sunken in another ten, with only rope ladders leading down. They were currently pulled up, preventing the two men in the ring from escaping. The sunken ring had sand on the bottom, contrasting the stone and muck that made up the floor everywhere else. 

Hawke had a wide grin on his face as he led Fenris towards the bar, which was built out of the stone wall itself. The two had to hold hands in order not to be parted in the crowd. With their armor on, people gave them as much space as they could, but it was packed. Hawke could barely hear himself think, which was probably the only reason he wasn't freaking out over holding Fenris's hand for longer than five seconds. 

“So what is this place?” Fenris asked as Hawke flagged the bartender down. 

“The Pit! The premier — and by that I mean the only — fighting ring in Kirkwall to feature bare-knuckle fights at all hours of the day. It used to be a part of the sewer, but then stuff got moved and water redirected. I don't really know the details. But every once in a while it still floods. Boy did it suck to fight in the ring with two feet of gross water dragging you down.” 

Fenris tilted his head. “You fought here?” 

Momentarily, Hawke wondered if it was possible to throw himself into the ring to escape this conversation. But Fenris had met Hawke while his daggers were still dripping blood and Fenris had never shied away from the violent nature of Hawke's very existence. 

“When we first came to Kirkwall, sometimes I wouldn't make enough smuggling with Athenril. One of the guys I ran with recommended here and…” Hawke shrugged. “I was okay.” The bartender came over and Hawke ordered the house brew for both him and Fenris. It was the thing least likely to give one a stomach ache, and there wasn't any wine, which Hawke knew Fenris would prefer. 

Fenris glared at someone who got too close to him before turning back to the conversation. “Hawke, I once saw you knock out a Tal Vasoth with your bare hands.” 

Hawke shrugged again, tossing the bartender a gold and handing Fenris a tankards larger than his head. “I got better.” 

A large cry went through the crowd and Hawke grinned. “The next bout is about to start, come on.” He wanted to grab Fenris's hand but hesitated and, by the time he had made his mind up, Fenris was already pushing his way through the crowd to get a better view. 

Someone tried to pick Fenris's pocket and Fenris, without looking, grabbed their wrist and twisted. The thief yelped in pain. Hawke felt a little light-headed. He was pretty sure this was what love felt like. 

“Citizens of Kirkwall!” The ringmaster, a dwarf with a beard Varric could only dream of, was standing on a wooden pedestal in the ring. He had a hand cone to help project his voice, but it was still hard to hear him over the chatter in the crowd. “Tonight we have a real treat. Tonight we have the one, the only, Claw of Kirkwall!” 

Loud cheering threatened to collapse the cave as the Claw stepped out. Hawke winced and checked Fenris's reaction. Next to him, Fenris was stone cold still, though he didn't look fearful. He was taking everything in, one arm resting against the railing, looking all too casual considering the situation. Next to him, a drunk dwarf let out a shout and swung his mug in a wide arc. Some of the alcohol splashed on Fenris, who turned to look at the dwarf like he had personally offended Fenris's grandmother. 

Suddenly, Hawke wondered if this was, perhaps, a bad idea. Should he have just taken Fenris to the Hanged Man or, Maker forbid, a pompous Orlesian place? Fenris deserved the best, and James… well, he certainly wasn't the best, but at least they could have some good times together, right? 

Fenris turned and locked eyes with Hawke. “What was your moniker?” He asked. Down in the ring, the Claw taunted his opponent, a slim elf who looked more terrified than anything else. 

Hawke laughed, flushing a little — and not just the alcohol. “You'll laugh.” 

_“Oh!”_ The crowd all leaned back as the elf landed a solid punch on the Claw's nose, leaving him bloodied. Neither fighter wore anything other than trousers and wrapped leather over their knuckles, leaving every bruise and batter visible for the world. The spectators eagerly awaited the first to drop — fighting wasn't always to the death, just sometimes. 

But Hawke paid no attention. He hardly even noticed when someone pushed past him, grabbing at his coin purse. Hawke grabbed their hand, twisted, and pushed them away without a second thought. On another day, he would have stopped them and maybe educate them on proper technique and picking a better target. Instead, he was too busy being captivated by the way Fenris glowed in the torchlight. 

That _might_ have been thanks to the alcohol.

“Was it something to do with birds?” Fenris asked, completely unaware that Hawke was imagining what it would be like to kiss him. 

“You sound like Varric. Has he been reading you his friend fiction again?” 

Fenris rolled his eyes. “He wishes. He and Isabela have been pestering me for details.” 

“Details about what?” 

“You would have to ask them.” Fenris glanced down at the ring. Claw slammed his opponent into the wall before kicking him in the groin. “In Tevinter, gladiatorial fights are popular means of entertainment. Danarius would go to them quite often, with me by his side of course.” 

Hawke felt the ground fall out from under him. He wanted to throw up — how stupid could he be? Of course something like this would be popular in a place as fucked up as Tevinter. Of course Fenris would associate it with Danarius. Surely Fenris knew that Hawke would never think of him like that, though. Surely — 

“He would have hated this. Too dirty. He thought himself above this.” Fenris shrugged. “I think this is far more enjoyable. The end is not scripted.” He looked at his ale for a moment before taking a long drink. 

“If you want to go—” 

“No.” Fenris smiled again. “We have not even watched two matches. And you have not told me your title.” 

Hawke flushed a little more, the red spreading up to his ears. He brushed a few stray strands of hair out of his eyes. “Well, I'll make you a deal. If you can guess it, I'll tell you about how I found out Qunari are particularly sensitive in the nose.” 

“I like those terms.” Fenris was about to say more, but a large human suddenly pushed past him. Hawke stabilized himself as Fenris was pressed against him, too much sharp metal and a giant sword getting in the way for Hawke to enjoy the contact. “Fasta vass,” Fenris muttered, giving the stranger a dark look. 

_Well, we can't have that,_ Hawke thought. 

“Hey, we're standing here,” Hawke said. He stepped in front of Fenris, arms crossed. The stranger was a tall woman, striking red hair with green eyes and a long scar across her face. Like Hawke, she was fully armed. Unlike Hawke, she had a large sword strapped to her hip and it looked like she knew how to use it. She was actually taller than Hawke and having her look down at him just made him want to punch her a little more. 

“Yeah? You and who else?” The woman asked. 

Hawke jerked his head towards Fenris, who was hovering on Hawke's left. “Him. You pushed him. Apologize.” 

The woman stepped forward. If she thought Hawke was going to back down, she was sorely mistaken. He got closer until there were inches between them. He could see the sweat dripping off her nose. He hoped she could see that he was ready to throw down right here, right now. Under normal circumstances, Hawke didn't back down from a fight. With Fenris, the person he had a crush on ever since they first met in a moonlit alley? Hawke was struggling to come up with reasons _not_ to fight. 

“You and your knife ear can get to the back where you belong.” The woman hadn't even finished the last syllable before Hawke's first flew through the air, slamming into her face and breaking her nose. 

He drew his daggers and suddenly there was a wide circle around the two of them, Fenris the only one not moving. The fight in the ring still drew attention, but a number of eyes were on Hawke. He didn't mind. Attention was never a bad thing. 

The woman stumbled back as she groped for her sword. She waved it in the air, glaring at Hawke. “You're going to pay for that.” 

“I really don't think I will,” Hawke replied. “You can go now, if you want. Save your pride and reputation. But you need to ask his forgiveness.” Again, Hawke gestured towards Fenris. 

“Nah, I don't owe that knife ear—” She couldn't finish because Hawke charged, shouting bloody murder. 

#

Hawke grit his teeth as he finished adjusting his fingers into place, snapping the joints back to where they belonged instead of the twisted mess that it got smashed into. Besides the fact that his left hand was out of commission for a few days, a long cut along his ribs, the multitude of bruises across his body, and almost certainly developing a concussion Hawke felt great. 

Because Fenris was sitting next to him, mouth a thin, concerned line, one hand resting on Hawke's less injured arm. Those green eyes seemed to burn with worry as they focused on Hawke, not moving off his face even to blink. 

“Well, that could have gone a lot worse,” Hawke said with a forced smile. 

“You got thrown down a hole.” 

“I've had worse.” 

“Someone crushed your hand under their boot.” 

Hawke lifted up the hand in question, which was sufficiently fucked up enough to make a rather unappetizing _crunch_ when he moved it. “Eh, I always did think I needed more scars to brag about.” 

“You do look very handsome when covered in blood.” 

There would be a smile on Hawke's face, but the act of smiling was too painful what with the bruise forming on his left cheek. “Thank you!” Hawke said. “Please tell Isabela you think that, I keep trying to convince her my chipped tooth makes me look extra roguish. She doesn't believe me.” 

Fenris chuckled, a deep sound that spread through Hawke's bones and sent a shiver up his spine. He leaned back a little, resting one hand on the crate that he had turned into a seat. The two of them were lingering in the undercity for now, mostly because Hawke was in no condition to walk anywhere else. Hawke had no potions and they had already used the two Fenris carried. 

Later, Hawke would blame Isabela for practically kicking him out of his own house. 

“I enjoyed this,” Fenris murmured. “We should do more together that is not monitored by our… friends.” 

The cheer slowly drained from Hawke's body. “Oh, yeah. Definitely.” All it took was a look from Fenris and Hawke admitted, “I thought that we could go get something to eat? It isn't too late.” 

The 24th bell rang. Hawke winced. It was very late. 

“Hm. I would be amicable to such an arrangement, if you were to find somewhere still serving. And, of course, someone willing to take in two… interesting people.” 

It was enough of a _yes_ that Hawke's spirits leapt. “Yes, okay, I know I can find us something. This is Kirkwall, the only people asleep right now are the elderly and Sebastian.” 

Hawke lurched to his feet before sitting right back down. His knee was screaming in protest, like he had dropped an anvil on it instead of using it to break someone's back. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing, far too aware of how pathetic and weak he probably looked. Fenris had escaped with nary a scratch, all the attention drawn to the rogue with brown skin and a charming smile. 

A moment passed before Hawke forced his eyes open, glancing at Fenris. There was no disgust, no pity. Just concern and, perhaps, a spark of affection.

 _Shut up, James. You're drunk._

“Sorry, I think I might need some help to stand,” Hawke confessed. 

Fenris rolled his eyes but he was smiling as he got up and, gently, helped Hawke onto his feet. 

Hawke leaned against him the whole way to dinner, not even trying to wipe the grin from his face. 

#

The Pickled Turnip was almost entirely empty, which wasn't saying much considering it had three tables and a simple counter with the menu scribbled onto an old piece of driftwood. Hawke beamed as he walked inside, or he would have if his knee didn't start acting up somewhere between the lift going up from Darktown to the Lowtown slum that was unfortunately only three minutes away from where Gamlen lived. 

It was a bit of a walk to get there, but it was the only place that served exactly what Hawke wanted _and_ was open at all hours of the night thanks to being run by three insomniac sisters and their unfortunately culinary challenged brother. Plus it was sort of on the way back to the estate, in that it was above ground and Darktown was not. Close enough, Hawke figured. 

“Hawke! I was starting to think that you had forgotten about us,” Rebecca, the oldest sister, said as Hawke limped in. He was supported almost entirely by Fenris. “You look horrible.” 

Hawke flipped her off, but he was grinning. His teeth were drained with blood. “Two gold for your house stew and, uh, some good wine for the gentleman.” He handed her the gold in question, his fingers smearing blood all over the metal. 

Rebecca looked a little disgusted. Fenris had no expression whatsoever. 

The two sat at a table in the back, the farthest they could from the door. Hawke was glad to get off his feet but he was even more overjoyed at seeing the way Fenris relaxed. Now that they weren't wandering down back alleys, Fenris was breathing easy. He looked around out of curiosity rather than suspicion, examining the little decorations that were stuck on every flat surface available. There was a moment when Hawke felt his breath catch as Fenris gingerly reached out and picked up a small mabari statue, carefully turning it back and forth. He was careful to not mark it with his clawed gauntlets or to rub blood on it. 

Fenris coughed and flushed, setting it down quickly and looking back at Hawke. 

“Do many places such as this exist?” Fenris asked. 

“Not really. Most people hate the refugees and run them out of business unless they're protected by the Coterie, but the safety tax is too high for a lot of us.” Hawke shrugged. “I'm pretty sure this place only exists since it's so out of the way. And this entire neighborhood has been taken up by Fereldens.” 

Rebecca came by and dropped off a glass of wine for Fenris. She didn't stare, though her eyes did widen a little at the lyrium that curled up his neck. Hawke didn't blame her. He still had very vivid dreams of kissing Fenris on his neck and tracing those lines with his tongue. 

“The food reminds me of Ferelden, but like… a better Ferelden. Lothering was kind of horrible,” Hawke admitted. Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Well, it was small. There were maybe three other kids around my age, maybe twenty in total. Everyone was a farmer or a hunter or, if you wanted to be really fancy, a craftsman. I'm pretty sure the blacksmith and the cobbler were the only people who didn't work in a field ever. We moved around a lot as a kid, but Lothering was my least favorite.” 

“Bethany always spoke of it fondly,” Fenris commented. 

“Yeah, well, like I said. It was quiet. We thought we could stay there and never leave. Probably would have if it weren't for the Blight.” Hawke sighed and lowered his voice. “I'm not glad the Blight happened, but I'm fucking thrilled that I'm not in Lothering anymore.” 

Fenris didn't have anything else to say to that. He nodded and leaned back, sipping at his wine. Hawke chuckled at the look of mild disgust that spread over Fenris's face. 

“Not to your liking?” He teased. 

“Sour,” Fenris said, setting the wine aside. Hawke, who enjoyed anything fairly alcoholic and really wanted something to help dull the pain that throbbed throughout his entire body, took it and downed it in a single gulp. 

“Ferelden,” he corrected. 

Rebecca came back over with two clay bowls filled with a stew of mysterious contents. She smiled at the two of them and gave them wooden spoons that had seen better days. “Enjoy!” 

“Thanks,” Hawke said. He gave her an extra silver for her trouble. “This is a Ferelden classic,” he told Fenris. Hawke was forced to eat with one hand — his left was not up for anything, let alone grasping a spoon — and he felt a little bit like a Ferelden barbarian as he slurped down the late dinner. 

Early breakfast? Whatever. 

Fenris poked at the stew with his spoon. His nose was wrinkled in disgust and Hawke opened his mouth to tell him that he didn't have to eat it — Ferelden cuisine wasn't for the faint of heart — but Fenris’s eyes flicked up to him and the words died in Hawke's throat. 

“Why are there fish bones in this stew?” Fenris asked. 

“Flavor. If you don't want yours, I'll have it.”

Fenris pulled the fish bone out and handed it to Hawke with a dubious expression on his face. Hawke grinned and swirled it around in his bowl, making sure to pick up a lump of potato next and eat it in one bite. Fenris made a face. Hawke, who was definitely older than eight, stuck his tongue out. 

A flicker of a smile appeared on Fenris's face, a flash of light in the darkness. Hawke swallowed his food, hoping he wasn't blushing too much. It hurt a little bit to chew, though thankfully that only applied to the bits of fish and potato in the stew. Fenris was eating too, slowly picking through everything and setting anything that disgusted him aside with an equally disgusted expression. 

Hawke was a blind idiot when it came to emotions, but he could tell that Fenris absolutely hated the food. 

“Let's get out of here,” Hawke suggested. Fenris paused, his spoon halfway between his bowl and his mouth. “Seriously, you look like you're considering the best way to murder me with that spoon.” 

“I am not.” Fenris sounded almost offended. 

“I'm not blind, Fenris. You hate it. And that's okay. Ferelden food isn't for the faint of heart.” Hawke cracked a smile and gestured at Fenris's bowl. “But if you aren't gonna eat it, I am.” 

A moment passed. Fenris sighed and slid the bowl over to Hawke. 

“I am sorry, Hawke, but this is truly one of the worst things I have ever eaten.” 

It hurt, a little, to hear Fenris say that but Hawke knew that Fenris had a much more refined taste than he did. Of course Fenris liked nice things, liked fancy food like those Orlesian crab cakes from the place down the road from the estate or the light and fluffy buns the baker made fresh every morning. The kind of food that kinds and real nobles ate, not scruffy rogues who fought their way to the top.

Hawke was an idiot to think that he could bring Fenris to a stupid Ferelden place that served stew made cheap for refugees who could barely get a job at the docks. 

“We’ll just head back. I’ll drop you off at your place, if you’d like.” Hawke hoped that Fenris wouldn’t say no. As disastrous as the night had gone, Hawke still craved Fenris’s company like a drowning man to air. When he was around Fenris, it was a little harder to hate himself. 

Fenris, whether out of pity or some other emotion, nodded. “I am sure that there are other good dishes from Ferelden—” 

“No, no, it’s all pretty much like that. There’s a reason that we’re called dog lords.” Have managed to crack a grin. He quickly scarfed down what Fenris had been picking at and stood. His knee cracked and Hawke felt a stab of pain on his side, but his head was clearer now that he had food and he could put a real smile on his face. “Night, Rebecca. Tell your siblings I said hello.” 

Hawke managed to walk all the way to the steps leading up to Hightown before his body decided no, it did not want to keep moving and forced him to sit down in the middle of the street. He felt stinging pain all over and spots danced in front of his vision. His head was sore and it hurt to breathe. He really must have fallen poorly — usually he could fall off of rooftops without any inconvenience. But he _did_ get the snot beaten out of him at the Pit. 

Not because he had been unprepared or outclassed, mind you, but the woman had friends. Fenris had gotten in a few good blows, but Hawke had quickly dragged them out of there when he saw the way some of the more drunk nobles were eyeing Fenris like they wanted to personally purge this elf out of existence. Even though they probably could have taken them, actually murder in a crowd of innocents was a bad idea. 

“Hawke?” Fenris’s voice broke through the cloud that hung around Hawke’s head. He was pretty sure it was a metaphorical cloud, but also everything seemed dim and hard to see. “James, can you hear me?” Fenris knelt down in front of Hawke, brows furrowed in concern. “James, do you need a healer?” 

_He’s so beautiful,_ Hawke thought. Fenris blushed and Hawke realized he had spoken aloud. “You… You’re way more beautiful than Bela,” Hawke slurred. 

Fenris chuckled. “Do not let her hear you say that. She may be offended.” He straightened up and offered a hand to Hawke. 

Not one to pass up a chance to hold Fenris’s hand, Hawke accepted. He hoped his goofy grin was passed off as the vestiges of alcohol or the concussion that was _definitely_ settling in rather than the giddiness he felt at how warm Fenris’s palm was. Hawke wished they weren’t wearing their armor so their hands could really touch, but there was only so much a man could take before spontaneously exploding. Hawke was just about at his Fenris physical touch threshold for aforementioned explosion, what with needing to be supported all the way up from Darktown. 

“Well, well, well,” a low voice taunted. 

Hawke and Fenris glanced around, the two quickly realizing they were surrounded. A group of half-rate thieves, all armed with weapons that had seen better days, had them stuck. The leader was a heavyset man with greasy hair and pale blue eyes. He had a sword in one hand and an axe in the other. Hawke might not have been at his best, but he could tell this was someone who knew how to fight. 

Casually, Hawke straightened up. He felt his body hum with energy, adrenaline kicking in. “I’m having a bit of a bad night for this. Why don’t you go home and I won’t chase you down and feed your livers to my dog?” Hawke threatened. He slowly pulled his daggers out, letting the wicked sharp blades catch the moonlight. 

“Ha, listen to that!” The gang’s leader laughed. “You’re an idiot if you think you should be doing anything other than begging, boy. There’s ten of us and one of you… and an elf.” He spat on the ground, the glob landing between Fenris’s feet. 

Fenris wrinkled his nose. He pulled out his sword and, instinctively, he and Hawke went back-to-back. They weren’t touching but they didn’t need to — Hawke could feel where Fenris was just like he could feel his arms and legs attached to his body. Hawke would have to be dead not to know how to fight with Fenris by his side. 

“Seriously, last chance. I try to give my enemies clean deaths, but I’m tired enough I might not for you,” Hawke warned. 

“My name is Merciless Mullins and I didn’t make my way up the criminal ladder just to get shit talked to by some Ferelden dog. Attack!” Mullins shouted. Instantly the gang converged, going in for the kill. 

Hawke’s previous pain and exhaustion faded away. His mind was sharper than his daggers as he cut through flesh and ducked under blows meant to kill him. He twisted aside from an axe, parried a sword, and threw a grenade on the ground. Instantly the area was filled with smoke. He and Fenris were used to fighting under these conditions. The gang was not. 

“Hyrrah!” Fenris shouted, drawing attention as he lit his brands and cut one man in half. He lashed out with his fist and pulled another’s heart out from his chest. Hawke was so distracted that he almost was stabbed through the cut, but he slid aside and sent one of his throwing knives at the offender.

Three down, seven plus one big idiot to go. 

Hawke tossed another grenade in the air and, feeling cocky, jumped in the air and kicked it at a group of minions who had gathered together. They instantly went up in flames and scattered, screaming as they attempted to put themselves out.

_That’s six._

“Don’t just stand there, get them!” Mullins bellowed. Five more creeps seemed to melt out of the darkness. Hawke had a vivid moment of confusion — he could have sworn they weren’t there earlier — but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t good at dates but he was still a lethal killing machine. 

Hawke spun again, slashing at someone who thought they could sneak up on him. He launched into a flurry of blows, slicing them into ribbons before leaping through the air and sinking his daggers into the back of someone who dared shoot an arrow at Fenris. Even if the arrow hit nothing but air, the mere idea made Hawke’s blood boil. 

Fenris was equally captivating, shouting and drawing most of the attention while still proving more dangerous by far than anyone else on the field. His sword slid through leather armor like a hot knife through butter and his lyrium gave him abilities none of the simple thieves had encountered. He traveled faster than thought, wielded a two-handed greatsword with ease, and did not hesitate to secure kills. 

Watching him was sufficiently distracting that Hawke would later use it as an excuse as to why someone managed to get the drop on him and stab him in the chest. Immediately Hawke sliced their throat and stumbled away, but the damage had been done. He could feel blood pool and he kept seeing doubles of everything. His nerves were on fire and breathing was near impossible. 

He grit his teeth and reached for one of the potions he usually kept on his belt but found only air. _Right, I didn’t have time to bring any. Isabela swore I wouldn’t need them… Damn…_

“Hawke!” Fenris’s voice sounded off, like he was being strangled midway through the word, fear and hopelessness threatening to consume him. It was the last thing Hawke heard before unconsciousness finally won the battle and brought him to the ground, the fight nowhere near over. 

#

Hawke woke up on a bed. It wasn't his bed. But it was still a good bed. There were plenty of blankets, for one, bunched up around him like he was a baby in need of being swaddled. His head was cushioned by a two pillows soft as clouds, as were his legs. He could feel bandages wrapped around every limb and his stomach. Whoever had moved him had also taken his armor off, as well as most of his clothes, leaving him only in his smalls. 

He probably should be more embarrassed about that, but whoever had cared for him had left his chest alone so he couldn't quite bring himself to care. 

“You are awake.” Fenris moved into Hawke's limited field of vision. He held up a glittering red potion. “Drink.” He helped Hawke sit up and brought the potion to his lips. It tasted like salt and lightning but it did make Hawke's head clear and he was able to look around. 

His armor and daggers were set aside on a bench. Fenris was fully armed and covered in dried blood, but he had taken his gauntlets off. They were in one of Fenris's spare rooms, though the amount of blankets and pillows around Hawke made him guess Fenris had carried them in for Hawke. Hopefully he had others — Hawke had gotten blood everywhere. Most of it wasn't his. Probably. 

“How do you feel?” Fenris asked. 

“Roguishly handsome?” Hawke tried, forcing a smile. Fenris glared at him. 

“I thought you were dead.” 

_Oh._

“Yeah, well, it'll take more than some idiot with a sword to kill me. I, uh, take it that you dealt with the rest?” 

Fenris nodded. “They will attack no one else.” His face softened. “This was my fault. If we had stayed at the restaurant, then—” 

“We would have been attacked by Many Eyed Mark or some other thug with a purse to fill. It wasn't your fault, Fenris. I thought I was up for a fight and I should have been more careful. I let the adrenaline get to my head.” Hawke reached over and caressed Fenris's face, thumb swiping over his cheek where a bruise was starting. He immediately realized what he was doing and went to pull away, but Fenris didn't look angry. 

Rather, Fenris looked… well, it was difficult sometimes to see him as anyone else but a fearsome warrior but in that moment he looked soft. Gentle. Someone that Hawke needed to protect with his life.

The joke, of course, was that Hawke would always do that for Fenris.

“Sorry,” Hawke murmured. 

“Good. You are not permitted such recklessness,” Fenris replied. He tried to look angry, but it was hard with how he leaned into Hawke's hand. “I… I was scared.” 

Fenris sat back up and yawned. “You may stay as long as you wish. In the morning I will send a message to Bodhan and your mother so they do not worry. Is there anything else you need?” 

Hawke shook his head. “Thank you, Fenris. I… I know this is probably not what you expected, but I really enjoyed tonight. Probably not what Isabela expected me to do, but she left the planning to me so.” He half-shrugged. It was all he could do considering the state of his body. 

The smile Fenris gave Hawke was the most precious gift Hawke had ever received and it was gone in a moment. “I enjoyed tonight too. Perhaps next time there is less injury towards yourself?” 

“Asking me on a second date already?” Hawke teased. 

“What?” Fenris asked. 

“What?” Hawke echoed. “Oh, uh, you didn't — of course you didn't—” He felt like his chest was collapsing, his heart tearing free of his body to throw itself on the ground in sorrow. It was stupid to think that Fenris would go on a date with him. Stupid to think that Fenris would ever consider kissing or holding Hawke with affection. Stupid to think someone as violent and jagged and broken as Hawke could love someone as wonderful and beautiful and strong as — 

“Did you… Did you think this was a date, Hawke?” Fenris asked. Hawke nodded. He closed his eyes, unable to look at the disgust that must be on Fenris's face. 

“I'm sorry, Fenris. I… I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I'll just gather my things and leave, you don't have to worry about me being in your space anymore.” Hawke let out a shaky breath. He refused to cry, refused to give Fenris another reason to hate him. 

“Hawke, can you look at me?” Fenris asked. Slowly, Hawke opened his eyes. Fenris was sitting next to him, candlelight turning his hair orange and gold. The lyrium glowed faintly, making it seem like there was an outline of light around Fenris. “I… I had a very good time on our date, Hawke. And if you wish, I would very much like to go on a second.” 

A moment passed. Hawke's heart jumped back up, did a run across Thedas, and leapt back into his chest. He smiled. 

“Fenris, may I have the honor of kissing you?” Hawke asked. 

A fragile, soft smile ghosted across Fenris's face as he nodded and leaned down to kiss Hawke. Their lips met and stars were born. Oceans rose and empire fella. Hawke felt the distinct sensation of _belonging._ He could only hope Fenris felt the same. 

“Thank you,” Hawke murmured when they pulled apart, Fenris's lips still hovering above his. “You have made me the happiest person in all of Thedas.” 

Fenris’s smile grew. They kissed again and Hawke decided that hey, maybe this wasn't the worst date ever.


End file.
